


Follow You Home

by QueSeraAwesome



Series: Domestic AU [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Asexual Maine, Demisexual Wash, Domestic Fluff, Everybody Lives, F/M, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-23 19:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1576571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueSeraAwesome/pseuds/QueSeraAwesome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The War is over. Aliens and humans are no longer killing each other. Everyone gets to go home.<br/>When the Project closes it's doors for good, former Agents Washington and Maine stand at the on the sidewalk together, one duffle bag apiece. It only makes sense to go together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The War is over. Aliens and humans are no longer killing each other. Everyone gets to go home.

Project Freelancer never does get its day in the sun and neither do its agents. That magic bullet they needed to win the war has been found, and it isn’t them. The Director screamed himself fuchsia when the military brass arrived to retrieve UNSC property, Project Freelancer’s funding cut. The Mother of Invention is docked for the last time; when she flies again she’ll be a medi-transport, ferrying medical supplies to the Outer colonies. Everybody gets to go home.

Except Wash doesn’t really have a home to go to. He tells himself it’s not the last time he’ll see them as he watches them all walk away on the sun-soaked pier of the base. North and South have each other. York’s going to follow Carolina, and she’s probably going to let him. Florida and Wyoming walked off base shoulder to shoulder, and Wash wishes them luck with whatever as long as the creepy fucks stay far away from wherever he’s going to end up. Connie gets picked up by some guy with a Mohawk, waving to them and smiling over her shoulder. They’ve all already said their goodbyes. She’d gone up on tiptoe to give him a hug, whispered in his ear so the others couldn’t hear, “This is for the best, Wash. For all of us. Trust me.”

Maine and Wash stand together at the gate, one standard-issue duffle bag apiece and nowhere to go. Wash glances at Maine out of the corner of his eye. He looks different without his armor, smaller somehow. But also larger, the slick angles of the white titanium traded for the curves of human muscle. Wash knows this is the part where they’re supposed to say goodbye.

“Wanna find some place to stay?” he asks instead.

Maine grunts in reply, but he follows Wash out, which is answer in itself.

*

They get a two-story in one of the shittier neighborhoods of the mining colony they end up on. It’s more space than they need, but with their pension’s checks (including Maine’s substantial one—Wash never knew he was somehow involved with the Spartan program, and doesn’t know how to ask how) they can afford it. Wash gets a job blowing up stuff that the mining operations needs blown up. Maine doesn’t have so much luck. The colony’s a quiet one, not many jobs for the kind of skills on Maine’s resume, namely the ability to utterly destroy things and people (but mostly people).

*

Wash has slept with his fair share of women and men. It was alright. He could see the appeal.

Project Freelancer was full of sex. South made it a mission of fucking every woman on board who had even the slightest inclination towards ladies. Florida and Wyoming got caught on more than one occasion in the showers. Everyone knew what was going on between Carolina and York, even if no one had any actual idea what had actually happened or had yet happen between Carolina and York.

Wash didn’t fuck anybody. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t remember if Maine did either, despite the many pursuers who (bravely) dogged his steps for a chance at that. He doesn’t remember.

They have separate bedrooms, in their house.

*

Sometimes they go days at a time without speaking to each other. Wash wonders if he should be more worried about that. 

*

“It’s just weird that we all went our separate ways so fast,” Wash says. “I mean, I know it was just a job, but, still—“

“What do you think I’m comming you for, doofus?” Connie asks.

The picture is a little hazy through the vidscreen, the connection not very secure. Whatever it is, it’s on her end.

“Now, tell me about your life.”

“Uh, I got a job?” Wash says. “I live with Maine. We talk sometimes. We’re good, I guess.”

“...Wow, Wash. What a ringing endorsement of how happy you are.”

“I’m still figuring shit out, okay? Let’s talk about you again, I liked it better when you were talking and I was thinking up the snarky replies.”

“Have you heard about the old Director of Project Freelancer?” Connie asks, a slight edge of caution to her voice.

“What? No,” Wash says. He doesn’t keep much of an ear out for that stuff since it ended.

“He got arrested a while back.”

“Really? Why?”

Connie tugs at her bangs, brushes them out of her face.

“Ethical violations, they say. He was supposed to give back the AI that the UNSC gave him. And he did, he just didn’t give all of it back. Word in the news was all it ever did was insist it had to get something back, that it had to ‘go back for her.’ They thought it was just going rampant, until the second half of the AI escaped him and practically tore down the UNSC’s door.”

“He split it?” Wash asks, nausea rising.

“Looks that way. He’s got his trial in a month. Carolina’s pretty upset.”

“Wow,” Wash says. “Wait, why would Carolina be upset?”

Connie rolls her eyes at him, like he’s always been too thick to see what she does.

“Never mind, Wash.”

Wash studies her. He remembers what she said to him on the dock that day, when he’d felt like the world was ending, like his family was falling apart. _This is for the best._

“You knew,” Wash says. “You knew somehow. Or at least you suspected.”

Connie just smiles.

*

Maine is bored. The entire fucking house is color coordinated. His socks are organized in order of grunginess. The pans are stacked from shittiest to shiniest. The grout is fucking impeccable.

“Dude, you gotta get a job, or a hobby or something,” Wash says. “You can’t keep going like this. And stay away from my socks!”

Maine shrugs, goes back to organizing the silverware. Again. Wash decides to let it rest for a few days.

The next day when he gets home half the backyard is tore up.

“’Destroying shit’ is not a hobby!” Wash yells, searching the house for Maine. “This is not what I meant and you know it! We’re renting, there goes our deposit, Maine—“

Maine looks up at him from the kitchen table, where he’s sorting seed packets.

“Oh. Gardening. Really?”

Maine just shrugs.

*

The garden grows. Wash blows shit up at his job. No one dies. It’s kind of strange, really.

*

Maine doesn’t scream when he has nightmares. Wash almost wishes he would.

What he does do is dig his fingers, his nails into whatever he can reach. He’s left jagged pink and red marks in the palms of his hands, in his arms, claws through the sheets, his entire body tense and coiled in on itself. He doesn’t make a sound, and yet Wash’s developed some sort of sixth sense for when he’s having a nightmare. He’ll slip into Maine’s room, try to take his hands off wherever he’s hurting himself in his sleep, spread a cold towel or his palm over his eyes, easing the tension out of his brow. He’ll sit with him, listen to him breathing until it goes soft and slow again, the rigidity of his form easing into the slackness of sleep.

He doesn’t remember if he ever saw Maine sleeping before the Project ended. He thinks if he did, it was probably in armor. He would have remembered how Maine looks when he’s sleeping undisturbed, like a big cat spread out on a rock, all power and peace and the promise of potential violence when it wakes up. They don’t talk about nightmares during the daylight hours. Either of theirs. They don’t talk about nightmares at all.

*

Maine eventually gets a job as a bouncer in one of the rougher bars in town, purely on his ability to actually be able to bounce people on the body part of the proprietor’s choosing. One day he comes home, length of bandage messily wrapped around his forearm.

“What happened?” Wash asks, going to him, his fingers already working at unwrapping the gauze to check him over.

“Lucky shot. Wasn’t even sharp,” Maine says in explanation.

He lets Wash gingerly remove the bandage, getting a good look at the six-inch cut beneath. Wash’s inspection is thorough. Whoever tied wrapped the wound gets a D- in looks, but a grudging pass for cleaning the wound well. It’s already been treated, and was shallow in the first place. It isn’t even bleeding anymore.

“This isn’t even that bad,” Wash says.

Maine chuffs a laugh at him. Maine’s skin is warm and bronze under his hands, no longer pale from too many hours spent in orbit and/or in armor. Maine showed him a picture of his parents once, the only one he had. Wash always thought he looked more like his dad, a big-boned Scandinavian type. Looking at him now, Wash can better see his mom in him, where the genes of the smiling afro-latina in the picture ended up on the mountain of a man before him. He’s got her eyes, for one.

Wash realizes he’s probably been holding onto Maine’s arm for way too long.

“Sorry,” Wash says, releasing his arm. “Got a little lost in my head there.”

Maine snorts in laughter and pats Wash on the head, half hair-ruffle, almost half a caress.

*

Months pass. A year passes. Wash blows up more things, helps integrate more equipment into the mining operations. The bar Maine works off stops having fights. He switches to a more violent bar. The garden grows.

*

The sound of Wash’s shout is what brings Maine into the living room. Maine briefly wonders if he’ll need to get the brute shot out of storage before he catches sight of Wash flailing at the vidscreen

“You’re _what_?” Wash shrieks.

“Preggers!” York replies, shooting the camera a jaunty thumbs up. “We are expecting a sprog, in the pudding club, we are _knocked up._ ”

“Shut up, York. _We_ are not pregnant. _I’m_ pregnant,” Carolina interjects.

“And I would totally help if I could. I’d carry it myself, I would spare you that, darlin’, I would—“

“Oh, go baby-proof something,” Carolina shoves him off the chair they were sharing, York squawking his displeasure.

Carolina catches Maine’s eye and smiles.

“Hey, big guy,” Carolina says. “Hear the big news?”

Maine grunts, a bit of a curve to his lips his only expression.

“How’s the job?” he asks.

“It’s great,” she replies, obvious pride in her voice. “A challenge, keeps us busy. Ain’t anyone better to develop security for the UNSC than people who were so great at breaking in, huh?”

“I’m sorry, why are we talking about work?” York calls from off screen. “Baby! We’re having a _baby!_ ”

“Someone’s excited,” Wash comments.

“He’s been insufferable this entire time.”

“And you?” Wash asks, and immediately feels awkward about it. “I mean, are you excited?”

“Well, I can’t say we planned on this, but it feels right for right now,” Carolina says. “War’s over. I even get a year off maternity leave, but I don’t think I’m going to take it all. Got to have something to do, you know?”

“Suit yourself. I’m taking whatever I can get,” York calls from off screen again.

“You volunteering to be a stay-at-home parent?” Carolina yells back, affection in the lines of her body.

“Hell yeah! I’ve always wanted to be a kept man!”

Maine catches Wash’s attention with a hand on his shoulder.

“Going for a run,” he says to Wash, before turning to the screen. “Bye, Lina.”

“Talk to you later, you giant jerk,” she calls after him.

“Go jump off something,” he replies over his shoulder.

The screen door thuds behind him.

“How is he?” Carolina asks.

“I think he’s bored,” Wash says, turning back to the screen. “It’s like he’s…waiting for something?”

“For what?” York asks, poking his head back into frame. Carolina shoots him a look of fond annoyance.

“I dunno,” Wash says. “Something.”

Carolina smiles at him, that big sister smile she used to give all of them when they did something right for once. Wash is suddenly struck by how happy she seems, how content.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out, Wash,” she says.

*

“You know, you shouldn’t let me hold you back, man,” Wash says one day, watching Maine tend the garden. “If you want to go do something else, I mean.”

Maine stares at him.

“I mean, we never really talked about it, or how long this was supposed to last. If you want to move on, we’re good. I won’t take it personal or anything.”

Wash keeps looking forward, overwhelmed and a little surprised how serious this conversation is turning out. It didn’t sound like that big of a deal in his head. Maine places a gentle hand on his shoulder near the near the nape of his neck, fingers sliding against his hair.

Then he pushes, the tiniest of shoves. Wash nearly squawks in surprise. Maine chuckles and gets up, goes inside.

“What does that mean, though?” Wash calls after him.


	2. Chapter 2

The kid Wash catches stealing tomatoes is nine years old, and named Kellan.

Wash’s just glad he wasn’t armed when he found him, the sharp movement out in his periphery not ending with violence but with catching the kid by the back of his oversized t-shirt as he tried to scale the privacy fence. Wash puts him down and he backs against the wall, hands clenched in front of him protectively. He’s got straight black hair and almond shaped eyes, and they don’t trust him. Wash remembers having eyes like that.

“Whoah, hey, kid. Nobody’s going to hurt you,” he says.

The kid doesn’t believe him. Wash isn’t really surprised.

“Who’s supposed to be feeding you?” Wash asks, taking in the handful of tiny tomatoes the boy had grabbed, his skinny frame.

The boy doesn’t answer, his eyes darting for an escape route.

“We’ve got spaghetti, if you want,” Wash says.

The boy tries to cover his hope about the prospect, but Wash sees anyway.

“You can stay for dinner, if you want.”

This is why Wash is sitting on the back porch eating spaghetti and drinking chocolate milk out of curly straws with Kellan when Maine gets home. The kid had refused to come inside, and Wash hadn’t been able to choose between teaching the kid to trust people and letting him keep an instinct that could save his life someday. He’d at least gotten his name out of him. Wash glances between Kellan and Maine in the doorway.

“Uh…I can explain?”

Maine just rolls his eyes and sits down next to him on the porch, Kellan eyeing him warily. Maine reaches over and pulls the biggest, ripest tomato off the vine and tosses it to the kid.

“You knew he was stealing tomatoes?” Wash asks, and immediately regrets it when the kid stiffens like he’s about to bolt.

Maine makes his amused “tch” noise which means Wash is an idiot.

“S’not stealing if I let him,” Maine says, and the kid relaxes.

Maine steals the rest of Wash’s chocolate milk, and holds him off one handed while he drinks the whole thing down, pointedly avoiding the curly straw. Kellan laughs, and it makes Wash grin despite himself, despite Maine being a dick and stealing his chocolate milk because that’s the last they had, you jackass.

*

Kellan lives in a foster care home a few blocks down. They walk him back after they’ve eaten. That little boy walks up the steps to that house the same way that Wash and Maine used to walk to war, and Wash feels something big and terrifying swoop in his gut.

“I want to keep him,” Wash says, surprising himself.

Maine grunts in agreement.

*

They get to keep him. The paperwork is a mess. Two adult, single men wanting to adopt a nine year old boy. Two single veterans with spotty psych evals wanting to adopt a nine year old boy. But in the end, there are too many orphans and too few foster homes, not to mention good foster care homes. The social worker asks Kellan if he wants to live with Wash and Maine. He says he’ll give it a try.

It’s weird, at first. The kid doesn’t say much. He’s not beating Maine at The Quiet Game by a long run, but sometimes Wash feels like the only person in the house who uses his words. Sometimes he even forgets Kellan’s in the room.

“You are a stealth monster,” Wash tells him one day.“Seriously, little dude. I didn’t even hear you walk in, and I’m a UNSC marine.”

Kellan smiles bashful at him.

He and Maine work out in the garden a lot, side by side. They’ve got some kind of weird non-verbal communication thing going on, they never seem to have to talk about what they’re gonna do next. Wash makes sure they keep hydrated.

He’s also obsessively clean. He insists on helping with the dishes, so Wash lets him dry while he washes them. Wash hasn’t ever been able to find any dirty clothes from him when it’s time to do laundry.

He can’t sleep one night, and he finds out why. He’s in the kitchen, staring at the fridge for a solution to either his sleeplessness or his thirst when he hears a sliding noise. Sliiide-thump. Sliiiiiiddde-thump. And the sound of the laundry room door closing. He opens the door without a sound, because he’s a UNSC marine, and he knows how to do these things. Kellan’s got a laundry basket with his clothes for the past three days. He has to go up on tiptoe to reach into the machine, making sure they all fit in correctly.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Wash says. “You don’t have to do that by yourself.”

Kellan startles so bad he nearly tips over his own feet. He turns to Wash guiltily.

“I don’t want to be any trouble,” Kellan says, twisting the hem of his shirt in his hands.

It’s hard for Wash to speak around the lump in his throat.

“You’re not,” he says. “You’re really not. I promise.”

Kellan nods, doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Do you want any help with that?” Wash asks.

“Yeah.”

They get the laundry in the washer and go out to the kitchen to eat some cookies while they wait for it to be done. Wash agrees to let him stay up to see the laundry in the dryer as long as the late-night laundry missions stop.

“Wash,” Kellan says, carefully dunking his cookie so that all of it soaks up some milk. “I’d like to stay here. If that’s okay. If you want.”

Wash nods. Then he gets them both more cookies, because talking about feelings is hard.

*

They have a schedule. Wash wakes up at 7 and get Kellan to school and himself to work by 9. Maine wakes up at eleven and picks the kid up at 3. Wash gets off work at five, they all have dinner and he helps Kellan with homework. Maine heads to work at ten and gets back by three most nights. He always checks in on the two of them before he settles down. Wash unfailingly wakes up when he gets home, even if he just goes to back sleep. It’s not even the sound of someone moving in the house that wakes him, usually. Maine often gets restless and paces in the early morning hours. But for some reason, when Maine's there where he previously wasn't before, some part of Wash's brain wakes him up. He doesn't really think about it. It just is.

*

“I thought you had that guy, the Mohawk guy?” Wash says into the viewscreen.

“It didn’t really work out,” Connie replies. “We weren’t really after the same things.”

"I can’t believe you’re already back in armor,” Wash says. “What are you doing again?”

“Classified, sorry Wash,” Connie says, but she’s smiling. “Let’s just say I figure stuff out.”

“Like that’s not vague at all. And I guess he didn’t want that?”

Connie shrugs.

“He wanted the picket fence, two point five kids, the whole deal. And I like my job.”

“Did you hear about York and Carolina?” Wash asks. “She looks ready to pop any day now. Don’t tell her I said that. It hasn’t slowed her down any, though. She's not even due until next month.”

“There’s something I didn’t ever think would work,” Connie says. “York and Carolina, I mean.”

“They seem happy,” Wash says.

“You seem pretty good yourself,” Connie says.

“Yeah, we—“

Wash stops, suddenly unsure how to proceed. He’s aware they’ve been gossiping about everyone else’s lives for the past hour like a couple of blue-haired old ladies, but this is _his_ life. And it’s kinda hard to explain without everyone jumping to conclusions.

“Did I tell you we kind of…got a kid?”

Connie chokes. Wash isn’t sure what on.

“ _What._ ”

“Yeah, we found him in the back garden—“

“Hold on, I need a beer for this,” Connie says, getting up. “Because I swear I just heard you say you ‘got a kid’ exactly like you’d say you got a _cat_ and—just, hold on,”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Wash yells at her, even though she’s no longer visible anymore. “His name’s Kellan, by the way!”

*

When Wash gets nightmares, he cries. It’s embarrassing, even when there’s no one around to see. He wakes up with his eyes sore and gummy, his jaw aching from subconsciously clenching against crying out. People die in his nightmares, there’s blood everywhere and the retort of artillery fire and shadows stalking him that he can’t ever quite turn to see.

Sometimes when he has nightmares, he feels like there’s a presence in the room. There’s a feeling like a warm palm smoothing down his arm, down his back, there’s a something at his back, protecting his back, a warmth. It pulls him into it and the shadows stop hiding in corners and he sleeps soundly again, but he never remembers in the morning.

*

Wash finds Simra when she tries to pick his pocket. She swears at him in English, and Sanghelli and Hindi while he fishes his wallet out of her flailing hands, before promptly bursting into tears in the middle of the street. Wash might just panic.

He turns up on the porch with a sobbing five year old in his arms and a look of terrified confusion on his face. Maine just sighs and gets the curly straws.

No one knows where she comes from, they don’t even have a file on her. Simra doesn’t know where she comes from either. She says she snuck on a bunch of ships at one point. Wash sits down with Kellan. Simra is sleeping on the couch in the other room.

“How do you feel about having another person around here?”

“Like a sister?” Kellan asks, not meeting his eyes.

“Yeah,” Wash says. “I guess like that.”

“That’d be good,” Kellan says. "I'd like a little sister."

They get to keep her too.

*

Where Kellan has always been quiet, Simra never stops talking. She sits on the porch like a princess and gives Maine and Kellan orders while they garden, which they always ignore. She chatters non-stop while Wash tries to figure out braids and ponies and pigtails and whatever else she can come up with. Every night she tells Maine a bed time story. Sometimes Kellan wanders in to listen too, even though he’s allowed to stay up a half an hour later. In actuality, however, the story usually runs into his bedtime anyway, if they let her.

She’s good for them. She insists on holding Kellan’s hand as they walk into school together. She insists on a piggy back ride where ever Maine goes with her. She insists on hugs. She clings. None of them are really touchy people, but Simra reminds them that physical contact is okay. Kellan starts giving them both hugs before bed.

Simra takes to calling them Daddy Maine and Papa Wash, entirely of her own volition. Kellan still calls them Maine and Wash. Washington doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel about that. He’s not sure when he started thinking of them as a family, instead of some strange patchwork of people that helped each other.

He’s not sure how he’s supposed to bring it up with Maine either, feels too close to something he’s been thinking about for a while, something that keeps slipping away like a shadow out of the corner of his eye.

*

Maine knew Wash’s name was David before they had to sign all the adoption paperwork. Wash doesn’t know that.

*

When Wash kisses him, Maine kisses back. It’s a normal day. He can hear Kellan scolding Simra about her too-prodigious use of the watering can and her shrieking laughter from the backyard. Maine’s just come in to get them drinks.

He couldn’t tell you what made him do it. He kisses Maine.

Maine kisses back. The scrape of their stubble against each other’s is a nice counterpoint between the slick slide of lips. After what seems like an eternity, an eternity of sun warmed skin and lips and wet, they’re suddenly not kissing anymore. Wash doesn’t realize Maine had a hand cupping his head until it falls. Then Maine walks back outside. Wash isn’t sure what just happened.

*

Absolutely nothing changes. This has to be a bad sign. Wash is sure of it. He’s just too scared to poke at it.

*

Wash gets off early one day, sends Maine a message that he’ll pick up the kids. When he gets to the school he suddednly realizes he has no idea what he’s supposed to do. The other parents, however, are all standing by the gate waiting and chatting, so he decides to roll with it, joining at the edge of the crowd and leaning on the gate. He gets a few pointed stares when he joins them, but no one outright questions him. They all seem to know each other.

“I’m Annaleise, Annaleise Watkins,” the woman beside him says, shaking his hand. “I’m Dominique’s mom.”

Wash has no idea who Dominique is, or if he’s supposed to know her. He’s not sure he could even pick out any of his kids’ (his kids. What. The concept is still new to him) friends out in a lineup. He should probably get on that.

“Hi, I’m Wash. Uh, Simra and Kellan?”

“Oh….Oh! So you’re their…” Annalise leaves the sentence hanging, unsure of how to proceed.

“Yeah, I’m the other name on the paperwork. It’s kind of a long story,” Wash says.

“Well, that’s nice,” Annalise says. “We only ever see Mr. Maine at the gate. Are you two new in town?”

“Pretty new, I guess,” Wash says, left-footed at the questioning. “About three years. We just adopted these two this past year, though.”

“That’s so nice! Have you two been together long?”

Washington has no idea how to answer, or even if he wants to. The memory of their only kiss stings in the back of his mind. Annalise is looking at him expectantly, eyes eager for new gossip in a way that makes Wash want to go back and edit everything he’s said so far.

Luckily, the kids are starting to flood out of the school, accompanied by their teachers. Wash takes the distraction as an excuse to not respond to her question. Simra throws herself bodily at him as soon as she sees him, Kellan walking quietly behind.

“Papa Wash!” she shrieks. “You’re here, you’re here, you’re here!”

“Yeah, I’m here,” he agrees.

She grins up at him from his knees.

“Thought I’d surprise you guys.”

“I’m surprised!”

“I can tell.”

Hardly anyone pays much attention to her high-pitched babble. Kellan catches up and Wash ruffles his hair, earning him a smile. They’re attracting a bit of attention, these two kids that everyone clearly knows and is used to and the strange man. A bunch of boys standing together near the gate waiting for their parents catch Wash’s eye. They look around Simra’s age. One of the boys is glaring at Wash, but stops once he sees Wash looking. Wash frowns.

“Do those boys ever give you trouble?” Wash asks, pointing a thumb over his shoulder as they leave the school.

“Oh, no,” Simra says. “They’re too scared of Daddy Maine. Because he’s big.”

“Yeah,” Wash says, pensively.

“And scary. They think he’s scary.”

“I bet.”

“When he picks us up none of the other parents stand near him,” Simra adds.

“Really?”

“He thinks it’s funny,” Kellan says, his lone contribution to the entire conversation. Wash laughs.

“Yeah,” he says, “I bet he does.”

“Nobody messes with the daughter of a UNSC marine!” Simra declares.

She lets go of Wash’s hand to make karate chop swipes with her arms. Wash stutters to a stop in the middle of the street. Kellan sends him a questioning glance as Simra continues her assault on invisible attackers.

 _Daughter._ That’s what she is on paperwork. He’d seen the word there, then. _Daughter_. He looks over at Kellan. _Son_. How could he not have realized this before?

The sun seems almost brilliant as they continue down the street towards home. Kellan is telling a quiet story about what they did in science class. Simra is still fighting bad guys, encouraging Wash to back her up and get the ones she misses every once in a while. He obligingly slashes at the air. _Happy_ , Wash thinks. _This is happy_. They go inside and leave their shoes at the door.

Maine pokes his head in from the kitchen, grunts a hello. Simra flies into his shins at top speed, chattering about all the bad guys she beat. Kellan asks if they can have spinach for dinner.

 _Fuck_ , Wash thinks. _I can’t fuck this up_.

*

He’s got to do something. Like, actively. In Wash’s world, this usually means using his words, even if he doesn’t like it.

“Look,” Wash says one day, after the kids have gone to bed. “I’m sorry. I fucked up, I know it. I’m sorry if I made you feel awkward or anything.”

Maine stares.

“We’ve got a good thing going here, y’know? And we never talked about this, but, I mean we adopted Kellan and Simra. I just don’t want to make this awkward for everyone. I mean, they’re counting on us, it’s not the kind of thing we can just drop whenever we feel like it, if we can make it work.”

Maine cocks his head questioningly at him and Wash realizes this is beginning to sound like a “Let’s stay together for the kids” speech and quickly backpedals.

“No! I mean, you probably weren’t expecting that. And I’m saying I won’t be awkward about it, okay? Nothing has to change if—“

Maine reaches down, holds him still by the front of his shirt and places a chaste kiss on his lips. He lets go, pats him on the chest where he was gripping his shirt, as if to smooth it.

Then he rolls his eyes. And walks out of the room. The “We’re good,” is unsaid.

“Oh,” Wash says. “Oh.”

He can hear Maine chuckling at him from down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Points to anyone who gets the joke of the kids' names.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Wash is aware that they probably have to talk about this. It’s just that some things happen very quickly.

They find Nya. Nya is twelve.

*

Wash comes home and there’s a pre-teen on his porch. She waves as he walks up, in between bits of something she’s been given on a plate.

“Are you Wash?” she asks. Which is a strange question to get when walking up his own steps.

“Um, yes?” Wash asks. She holds out a glass with a curly straw poking out of it.

“Maine said I should give this to you when you walked up.”

Wash stands there, the condensation cold and clammy against his palm, listening to the ice cubes rattle. He looks up at the girl again. She smiles. There’s a comforting air around her, but Wash can see worrylines fighting to form on her forehead. He pokes his head in the front door.

“MAINE?” He yells. “CURLY STRAWS ARE NOT A SUBSTITUTE FOR TALKING.”

He turns back to the girl.

“Would you like to come inside?” he asks. “I have a feeling I’m going to want the whole story.”

*

Long story short: Her name is Nya. Some guy was giving her a hard time. Maine took care of it. Bought her a sandwhich. Somehow during this exchange he got her to tell him about how she was trying to sell hand-drawn portraits near the airstrips to save up money so she could get a ticket.

Not a ticket anywhere specific. Just away from her group home.

“The plan was—“ she explains, “To get to a city or something. Someplace with a bunch of tattoo artists. I was gonna try to get myself an apprenticeship.”

“Really?” Wash asks.

She shrugs, a careful mask of composure on.

“If I’m gonna be alone, I need money,” she says. “I wanna be a tattoo artist someday. It’s just a quicker start than what I thought.”

The girl, Nya, avoids his eyes. She’s twelve. She’s a child. A child trying to be older than her years.

“I had a big brother,” she says, finally. “I had a lot of people. A lot of family. It’s just me now. I don’t see any other way.”

Maine stands and just _looks_ at Wash. And Wash just _knows_.

“You don’t have to go it alone, you know,” he says.

Nya closes her eyes, heels of her hands digging into her temples.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asks. “I’m not complaining. I’m just saying, people don’t usually pay attention to left-behinds.”

Wash aches. Maine’s shoulder bumps against his, and stays there, a solid point of contact.

“We know a bit about being left-behinds,” Wash says. “We’ve kind of made a family out of them.”

*

They meet up with the same social worker who did Simra and Kellan’s paperwork. She looks at Wash, looks at Maine. Sighs.

“Are you two just collecting strays or some shit? Cats is easier, you know.”

“We know,” Wash says. “Do you think we’ll run into any trouble?”

“Probably not,” she says. “We _need_ more adoptive parents, and you two have been good ones. S’pose I couldn’t convince you to take on another while you’re adding?”

“Three’s probably good,” Wash says.

Maine shifts like he disagrees, but doesn’t say anything.

“I’ll have to interview the whole family again,” the social worker says. “Make sure everyone’s all good with the change, check in.”

“That’s okay,” Wash says. “They’re both excited.”

*

“Can she stay in my room?” Simra shrieks.

She’d taken to the older girl immediately (as she tended to with most people she liked, but the speed with which she’d latched onto Nya nearly gave Wash whiplash). Nya sends Wash a guilty look. Wash can sympathize. As much as he loves Simra (yes, he loves her. He loves his daughter and the novelty of saying it hasn’t worn off yet) he can see why sharing private space with her could get exhausting.

The thing is, there aren’t any more bedrooms. Except that Maine and Wash still sleep in separate bedrooms, despite the kissing thing that’s happening with more frequency (which means happening at all. It’s happened a couple more times since the second incident. Wash still doesn’t know what it means). They could—They could maybe…Would that be assuming too much? Not enough?

“Let me talk to Maine,” he says.

*

“So,” Wash says, joining Maine on the front stoop. Maine sitting on the porch, looking up and down the street like a lion surveying its territory. The neighborhood’s no less shitty, but a lot more safe since they moved in.

“Nya’s gonna join the—the family. And this is a four bedroom house.”

He lets the question hang there for a minute. They could move, if they had to. It’d mean abandoning Maine and Kellan’s garden and all the work they’ve put into it, but they probably could it afford it. He doesn’t hold his breath waiting for an answer. He doesn’t think about the other option. He waits. Sometimes you just have to wait for Maine to speak. Which he does, finally.

“Your room’s bigger,” he says, finally, turning his head the tiniest bit to look at Wash out of the corner of his eye. There’s something warm there. “Good?”

Wash exhales.

“Good,” he agrees.

“My bed’s bigger, though,” Maine says.

And that’s it, Wash knows. That’s all he’ll say on the matter.

“Okay.”

*

It’s surprising how easily all their stuff fits into one room. Neither of them has accumulated all that much in the way of possessions. In some ways, they still act like space marines.

The first night they spend together, Wash goes to bed early, soon after the kids do. He’s not sure how to just crawl into a bed that’s already got Maine in it, so he passes on the awkwardness rather than deal with it himself. He is, of course, still wide awake when Maine goes to bed. Maine pads in, practically silent. Wash’s sleeping on his back tonight, had agonized over the implications of keeping his back towards Maine vs sleeping toward him and finally said “fuck it” and tossed the question altogether. He can hear rustling as Maine changes into sleep pants and gets into bed beside him, sleeping on his side, face turned toward Wash. He’s like a furnace. Something about that heat helps Wash relax and gradually he drifts off.

The next morning, he wakes up before Maine does. In the night he’s rolled into the gravity of Maine’s body, face tucked into his shoulder, Maine’s arms resting across his waist. ` It’s so nice, he doesn’t even want to move.

*

Nya is allowed to come home a day later.

The first thing they do is let her pick out a paint color for her room. Simra lectures seriously about the different merits of pink vs purple on the way to the store, but Nya chooses a bright, slightly burnt orange. It shouldn’t suit a girl with so much steadiness in her, but Wash can’t think of anything else that could possibly suit her better.

They paint it together, (Simra given a little paintbrush and told to do the corners where she can make the least mess of herself and everything) and Wash tries not to think about how they’re all going to get orange paint out of their hair. Next time they paint he’s getting the little ones hairnets. Kellan’s hair is nearly brushing the ceiling from where Maine has him on his shoulders, encouraging him to paint the top edges. Nya smiles at him, dips her roller in more paint.

Wash looks around at all of them and thinks, yeah. This could really work.

*

Nya adjusts. They all adjust.

Simra is overwhelmed at the concept of an older sister. Everything Nya does is right. Everything Nya wants to be, Simra wants to be. Everything Nya wants to do is the best idea ever. Wash wonders (hopes) she’ll grow out of it soon. Kellan’s no less infatuated, but hides it better. It is an unsaid fact at the dinner table that Nya will sit between them to avoid bruised feelings.

Wash notices, however, that Nya is kind of avoiding Kellan. He needs to find a way to talk to her about it, but he doesn’t really have enough proof. Maybe he’s just imagining things. She’s only been in the household a short while, it’s ridiculous to assume everything will just fall together immediately. It didn’t before.

This culminates one day where Nya pointedly turns away when Kellan asks if she wants to help him in the garden (this is high praise from Kellan. Simra has been banned twice over, and cannot be reinstated until her seventh birthday). The sadness on Kellan’s face is apparent, and Wash opens his mouth but he’s not quick enough.

“Do you not like me?” Kellan asks, voice small.

Nya buries her face in her hands and runs out the back door.

It takes one glance between them to have Maine going to Kellan, while Wash goes after Nya. Wash closes the glass door behind him.

“I was going to be a big sister,” she says, without waiting to be prompted. “I mean, I _was_ a big sister. But only for eight months. Then he died, with the rest of them.”

Wash sits down next to her on the porch.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Me too,” she says.

“Don’t be,” Wash says. “Well, you can say sorry to Kellan. But don’t be sorry if you need to hold back a bit. You know, you’ve only been here a little while. It’s okay if you need time to adjust. If you need to be a little more reserved. You’ve lost a lot. You don’t have to feel like you have to do anything.”

“But I like it here,” she protests. “It shouldn’t be so _hard_.”

“Everything that’s worth it’s hard,” Wash says. “Sometimes, wanting something isn’t enough to make it easy.”

Nya doesn’t say anything, stares at her hands.

“I’ll explain what’s going on to Kellan, if that’s okay with you,” Wash says. “You can take a step back, if you need to.”

They’d all barreled into this whole family thing pretty much no-holds-barred, no looking back. It was about time they hit some bumps. They probably should have been expecting this. Wash looks over at Nya. Her jaw’s set in a firm line. She’s got her hair up in thick twists this week, and a couple are falling into her eyes.

“No,” Nya says, standing. “I don’t want to do that.”

Nya walks back inside before Wash can manage to say anything. He turns to watch as she walks inside, shutting the glass door behind her. She walks right up to Kellan, taps him on the shoulder. Wash can’t hear what she’s saying, but it looks like an apology, from her body language. Kellan watches solemnly, nodding to show he’s listening. Her movements go a little jerky, nervousness and shame creeping in. Wash catches Maine’s eye from where he’s watching at the kitchen table.

Nya starts to cry. Wash starts inside, cursing himself for letting her try to handle this herself, when Kellan steps forward. Kellan has never been the most demonstrative or affectionate kid. But Kellan opens up his arms and wraps them around her.

For a moment Wash is scared it’s the wrong thing, too much, but she doesn’t even hesitate to hug him back. Maine gives him a small smile, like he knew all along it’d be fine. Simra pops her head in from the hallway, where she no doubt had been listening.

“Everyone okay?” Wash asks. Nya nods against Kellan’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” she says. “We’re gonna be okay.”

*

Maine and Wash share the same room. They share the same bed. The only awkward part about it is that it really should be, but it somehow still isn’t. They kiss more. Most times he wakes up curled against Maine. Most times he wakes up with Maine’s arm around him, his leg thrown over him, his solid presence at his back. They still don’t have sex. Second base is still far in the distance.

Wash hasn’t ever had much interest in sex. He’d mostly done it because his partners wanted it, and it wasn’t unpleasant. It was actually kind of nice. He can count on one hand the people he’s actually actively wanted to have sex with in his life. On that hand, there’s one or two he actually felt something akin to lust for.

He looks over at Maine, where he’s assembling a dresser Nya’s room. They’ve both kept up general training, even if it’s nothing like what they used to do in the military. Now when Wash goes for a run, he’s usually got one or two of the kids on bikes with him. He doesn’t train like he used to anymore, but if he got called back tomorrow it they wouldn’t find him wanting.

Maine, though, Maine still clobbers people for a living. Or nowadays, intimidates people for a living. Maine’s still all curves of muscle everywhere, bronze skin from working outside, dark eyes, thick dark hair where it’s starting to grow out a bit from his old buzz cut. Maine scowls at the plans, wipes the back of his hand across his forehead where sweat has begun to accumulate. He seems to sense Wash’s attention and looks up, sends him a questioning eyebrow. Wash shrugs in reply, and Maine huffs, a clear _Come help me, or go do something useful, jackass_ , before returning to the plans. Wash smiles, gives Maine’s form one last long look before leaving the room.

He could have sex with Maine, if Maine wanted it. He’d be good with that.

*

The problem is, that regardless of his decision that he would be okay with sex happening between him and Maine, he’s never actually been the initiator in any of his sexual relationships. It’s always been his partners taking the lead, setting the pace, making the decisions. And Maine hasn’t made a move.

*

There’s a meteor shower one night, and they all get to stay up to see the shooting stars. Maine takes a night off work to see it with them. Nya stays up, but Simra and Kellan nod off, have to be gently shaken awake when it’s time.

They lay on blankets under the stars, Simra shrieking every time she sees one. She gets bored quickly making wishes (there is only so much that she wants at five years old) and she gets distracted running around the backyard chasing fireflies. Fifteen minutes later she’s asleep, tucked into Maine’s elbow. Kellan drops off soon after, but the rest of them are awake, and the meteor shower is beautiful.

Eventually, Nya starts talking. She tells them about growing up in Kenya, about when her family started to move out into the stars, how she lost them. She tells them about her full name, _Nyathera_ , and what it means and what it means to her.

“Names are important,” Wash agrees.

She burrows a little closer into his side.

“Simra calls you Papa Wash and Daddy Maine,” She says, hesitating. “What should I call you?”

“Whatever you want,” Maine says.

“Your choice,” Wash adds.

Nya nods into his shoulder.

“Okay.”

*

Hours later, after they carry the sleeping children inside, that thought’s still with him as he and Maine curl around each other in bed.

“My name’s David,” Wash says.

Maine nods.

“I know.”

“You know?” Wash laughs. “How do you know?”

“Paperwork.”

Wash laughs again.

“Never took you for stealth,” he teases.

Maine chuffs, _not stealth, that’s common sense_ , he means.

“You can still call me Wash, though,” he adds, as an afterthought. Wash hesitates, suddenly unsure. “Yours?”

For a minute he thinks he’s pushed too far, by the way Maine’s breath stills in his chest for a second. But then he burrows in closer to Wash, adjusts the grip of his arm around him, and he knows they’re okay.

“Got a few.”

That’s right, Spartan’s have many names, Wash thinks. Names they’re born with. Code names given to them by the program. And then his Project Freelancer designation. Wash wonders at how much of Maine there is that he still doesn’t know.

“Which do you want to be?” Wash asks.

Maine ducks his head, face tucked into the top of Wash’s spine.

“Maine,” he says finally.

Wash nods. Trust Maine to keep it simple. Straight-forward.

“Okay,” Wash says.

He closes his eyes, ready for the few hours of sleep he’s going to get. He almost doesn’t hear the continuation of Maine’s thought, rumbled next to his ear.

“Maine’s the one who knows you.”

*

Look, it’s not perfect. Simra throws one hell of a tantrum when she wants to. Nya’s still adjusting, and has shown signs of sullen teenishness coming through. Kellan still tries to hide when he’s upset, will withdraw into his room, go silent for hours until someone realizes something’s wrong. And there’s something about having three kids that makes yelling more of a thing that happens. Like a lot. Sometimes even Kellan gets in on it, which Wash was not prepared for. These days he’s just as likely to come home to someone yelling across the house, or yelling about _not fair_ or yelling about the game they’re playing as he is to silence.

“How do three kids make ten times as much noise as two did?” Wash asks.

Said kids are currently outside playing, so the shrieking is somewhat deadened by the walls.

“I thought you might be more bothered by it.”

Maine shrugs. Wash looks at him incredulously.

“Project wasn’t exactly quiet,” Maine says. Wash concedes the point.

It’s not perfect. They’re all kind of a mess, in their own ways. They’re just messes that are holding on to each other.

*

They’re kissing, slow and easy, like they always do when they make out like this. Slow and easy, like Wash could fall asleep between one kiss and the next. He thinks he might have once. It’s _nice_. It’s _good_. He could do this forever. He could be happy with this alone, just this for the rest of his life. B

ut Maine probably couldn’t, Wash thinks. And Maine won’t make a move. So he’s going to have to.

He reaches for Maine’s belt.

“Do you want—“ Wash starts. “Do you want me to—“

Maine catches Wash’s wrist, brings it back up. For a minute, Wash just thinks he was doing something wrong, that there’s somewhere else Maine wants him to touch him, but then Maine takes Wash’s palm and cups it around his own cheek. He tips his face against Wash’s palm, practically purrs contentment.

Wash gets it, then. It’s exactly like the feeling you get when you snap to puzzle pieces together, the moment of rightness, when everything makes sense. Where all the possibilities before fade and of course this is how things were supposed to be, because how could they be anyway else? He leans forward, tips his forehead against Maine’s.

“God, I’m lucky,” he whispers.

Maine rumbles in reply, kisses him again.

*

They gradually get more tactile. Maine tugs Wash against him on the couch. Wash leaning against Maine’s back while he cooks. Kisses goodbye to and from work. He worries this new change will weird out the kids, but the only response he’s noticed so far is that Simra demands kisses goodbye too.

Some days Maine brings him lunch at work. He can tell some of the guys would love to tease him about that, but the thing about teasing your co-worker about their 6’4 built-like-a-brick-shithouse Spartan partner is that you shouldn’t.

“You suck,” Jenkins says, staring at his shitty microwavable meal.

“You’re just jealous,” Wash says, sucking gravy off his spoon. “I got a kiss, and stew for lunch from my awesome partner who could kick your ass.”

“Dude, you could probably kick my ass, you don’t need your partner’s help,” Jenkins grouses.

“I probably could.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

“Wanna see pictures of my kids?”

“Asshole.”

*

There’s a picture done in crayon the fridge. It says “My family” and it’s got all five of them on it. There’s a second picture next to it, a sketch in pencil of the same thing. Wash hopes that little things like that never stop being special.

*

“How’s parenting life going?” Wash asks.

“I sleep now,” Carolina answers with a tired smile. “She’s sleeping right now, York too, I think. Hey, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Go ahead,” he says.

“We were thinking about having a reunion,” Carolina says. “Everybody seems like they’ve settled down into their new lives, but we thought it might be nice to meet up. Catch up. What do you think?”

“It’ll be nice to see everyone again,” Wash says. “Outside of screens, you know.”

“There’s only so much you can catch up on through a vidcall,” Carolina agrees. “You and Maine up for it?”

“Yeah,” Wash says. “Let me know. You think we can get Connie out? I haven’t talked to her in ages.”

“If I have to walk into special ops headquarters and drag her out myself,” Carolina says. “North always seems to know where South’s at. We’ll make a party of it.”

“Sounds fun,” Wash says. “But what about the baby?”

“Oh, she’s coming,” Carolina says. “York barely lets her out of his sight. Kids, new flames, bring ‘em all. We’ll have a potluck or something.”

*

When they show to the Freelancer reunion, Wash realizes that he doesn’t actually know if anyone else but Carolina is bringing kids. Or if he told anyone about that bit.

“Did you ever tell anyone we were bringing the kids?” Wash asks suddenly. “Do they know about…about us?”

Maine sends him a look, like, _you’re asking if I volunteered information about my life_.

Wash realizes he’s the one who mostly comms the others, Maine peeking over his shoulder when he wants to join in. He’s been the one confirming the date for the reunion with Carolina, asking if he should bring any food for the potluck. He realizes he hasn’t talked to Connie since her last special assignment, and while she does know about the whole we got kids now thing she doesn’t know about the us thing beyond the former co-parents thing. He can’t remember if it came up when he messaged the others.

“Uh oh,” Wash says.

Nya sends him a concerned look.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “It’ll probably be…loud, but it’ll be fine.”

Maine full out laughs.

This is the picture they make when they roll up to the pavilion where the other former Freelancers are setting up the potluck. Maine’s got Simra sitting on his shoulders. Kellan’s walking between Maine and Wash, carrying a box of disposable silverware because he’d insisted on helping. Nya’s on his other side, carrying the cookies. Wash’s got a platter of whatever Maine made for this thing tucked under his arm.

“Oh my _god_ ,” he hears someone say as they get close. “Is that Wash and Maine?”

They stop. The two groups stare at each other. Connie’s changed her hair since he last saw her. South has a large tattoo spiraling down from her shoulder that he doesn’t remember. York’s got the baby in his arms while Carolina mans the grill. He hadn’t realized from the vidcalls how long her hair has gotten. He wonders what looks different about them. Besides the obvious, of course.

“Uh,” Wash says. “Hi, everybody.”

Nya looks at him like he is awkward and an embarrassment and she still cannot believe she’s more poised than he is, he’s supposed to be a UNSC marine for godsakes. Kellan grabs for his hand, picking up at the tension and not sure what it’s about yet. Wash squeezes it back comfortingly. Simra waves.

“Oh my god,” South says, breaking the silence. “You have a _brood_. I knew you two were shacked up together, but I didn’t know you fucking _spawned_.”

North shoves her a little. When she sends him an incredulous look he clearly nods toward Simra, who’s making eyes at a tray of brownies. Wash takes note to keep an eye out for her, she knows better but she’s also not above leveraging her cuteness against unsuspecting adults.

“Dude, lame,” York adds. “I already did the bring-a-surprise-partner-and-a-kid-thing. You are so twenty minutes ago.”

“I’m fashionably late,” Wash snarks back, walking forward and putting down the food. “Also, no one was surprised, jerk. You’ve been singing from the rooftops since you knew Carolina was pregnant,”

“Before,” North adds. “I’ve got a voicemail saved about how she let you move in with her from years back.”

And just like that, it’s like they’re all a family all over again. Connie comes over to give him a hug, ruffles Kellan’s hair and telling him she’s heard all about him. Carolina smiles at him, but doesn’t leave the grill. Nya wanders over in her direction.

Maine puts Simra down and makes a bee-line for the baby. Wash knows what’s up there, but clearly very few of the others are prepared for this revelation. If Maine refuses to put her down the entire time they’re here, walks around with her tucked into the crook of one arm, Wash won’t be the slightest bit surprised.

York looks at the behemoth of a man cooing over the baby in his arms like he’s not sure whether to be charmed, flattered, scared or pissed off, especially when Maine glares down at him until he lets him hold her. Maine then sits, letting a curious Kellan get a better look.

“What’s her name?” Kellan asks York in a hushed voice, like he’s afraid of waking her even though she's clearly awake and grabbing at Maine's face. York’s eyes kind of go big, and yep, that’s Wash’s kid. Doesn’t even know he’s a charmer. As opposed to Simra, who is ten seconds away from convincing North to give her a cookie.

“Not before real food, kiddo,” Wash says loud enough that North hears and has the sense to look guilty.

South cracks up.

“Holy—“ She stops when North glares at her, “stuff, Wash. The baby freelancer grew up. And has babies. When did you two get babies?”

“Almost two years,” Wash says. “We adopted Kellan right around the time Carolina found out she was pregnant. We’ve had Simra for almost a year. Nya a little under six months. We didn’t really have a plan, it just kind of…happened.”

South sends him an incredulous look.

“Yeah, it’s been happening awhile.”

“I think you won the roots-putting-down contest, dude,” York says, hovering uncertainly where Maine’s still holding his daughter.

“Yeah,” Wash says, exchanging a look with Maine, “Guess we did.”

*

Simra immediately takes to South. He feels he should be more concerned about that. Whatever they’re talking about, they both think it’s hysterical. No, he’s concerned. He’s starting to be very concerned. Meanwhile, Nya is bouncing back and forth between Connie and Carolina like she can’t decide who she wants to listen to most. Maine had wandered over toward the grill awhile back, Kellan a burr on his side. He and Carolina are laughing at something as they teach Kellan to flip burgers.

“You should comm me more often, you jerk,” North says, sitting next to him. “Although I can see what’s been keeping you so busy.”

“Sorry,” Wash says, wincing.

He realizes he doesn’t actually remember the last time he called North, or even sent him a message.

“Hey, man, don’t worry about it. We haven’t exactly been keeping still much. Especially South. Which by the way, you better be careful she doesn’t steal your kid.”

“That is not happening,” Wash says. “She’s destructive enough on her own, she doesn’t need my five year old’s help.”

“HEY PAPA WASH!” Simra yells across the pavilion.

North chokes on his drink.

“CAN I PLAY ON THE SWINGS?”

“Stay within sight!” Wash replies.

Simra tears off, dragging South with her, and Wash makes a mental note to get a photo of what’s about to happen.

“She calls you Papa Wash?” North asks, recovered.

“Yeah, it’s pretty adorable,” Wash replies in undertone. “They call Maine ‘Daddy Maine,’”

“Stop it.”

“Simra came up with it all on her own.”

“You’re in trouble when that one gets older,” North says.

“Hell, I’m in trouble now. Those three are a circus act of bad ideas and charm. What am I even talking about. How are _you_ , North?”

North shrugs, avoids his eyes, watching Kellan transport a plate of burgers to the table.

“We’re good. Still figuring things out you know? South moves a lot—“

“I asked how _you_ are, North.”

North sighs, takes a long gulp of his drink, throat working.

“Adjusting,” he says. “Still adjusting. But I’m good. Gotta find my shore some time, you know?”

Wash pats him on the shoulder. He pretends not to notice the tension leeching out of North at the human contact.

“You’ll figure it out,” he says. “And if you need any help figuring it out—“

“I’ll call you,” North says, smiling tiredly at him. “Let’s talk about something different.”

“I think the PTA are all afraid of Maine,” Wash says.

North bursts out laughing. Wash sees Carolina’s head jerk toward them out of the corner of his eye. He glances at her and she looks relieved.

“I think he’s encouraging it,” Wash continues. “Like, he’s never really been a talker, but he goes practically caveman whenever we have to talk to teachers or god forbid other parents—“

“How do the kids deal with that?” North asks, still laughing.

“Nya oscillates between being horrifically embarrassed and weirdly protective of him,” Wash says. “Simra doesn’t even notice, she’s too busy hanging off his elbow. I think Kellan’s the funniest, he just looks at people like they’re the ones being weird, it’s great to watch. He’s really good with all of them, really.”

“And you?” North asks, pretending like he’s not interested. “You two good?”

“Oh, yeah,” Wash says, not even trying to bother controlling his smile. “We’re _good_.”

*

“I’m glad you figured it out, Wash,” Carolina says to him.

Wash tears his eyes away from where Connie is listening intently to Nya telling her a story to look at her where she’s sitting next to him.

“…You knew,” he says. “You knew, about Maine and me—“

“I suspected,” she corrects.

“Well, you suspected before I had any idea,” Wash says. “…I’m glad, too. For you, too.”

Carolina makes a quiet pleased noise, her eyes trailing to where York is using his daughter to illustrate some story he’s telling Kellan, waving pudgy baby fists in the air.

“I didn’t think it would work out,” she confesses. “I really didn’t.”

“Is it?” Wash asks.

“…Yeah,” Carolina says, seeming to surprise herself. “We had to work at it, but, yeah.”

“I’m glad.”

They exchange a smile.

“Looks like we’re both pretty happy, Boss,” he says.

It’s a nice moment, just the two of them. It’s interrupted by York’s squawk of displeasure.

"I think I have to go deal with that," Carolina says, getting up.

Then, "Maine, gimme my kid."

*

The sun’s going down when they wrap up. South brings a tuckered out Simra to him in her arms, head lolling against her shoulder.

“You’re kid’s hysterical,” she says. “A real comedian.”

Maine takes her, rests her against his shoulder. Wash is thankful. She’s getting big. Kellan’s leaning against his side, tired as well but unwilling to show it.

“Did you have fun, buddy?” Wash asks.

“Got tips to deal with loud girls,” Kellan replies sleepily.

“From _who_?” Wash asks.

Depending on the answer, he has a new Thing to Be Concerned About. But Kellan’s practically asleep on his feet and doesn’t answer.

“This was awesome,” Nya says, walking up with Connie. “You guys’s friends are cool. Connie showed me a couple of her knife tricks!”

“We’ve made a horrible mistake,” Wash deadpans.

“Relax, I didn’t _teach_ her to do any of my knife tricks.” Connie says. “And you’re not to try any. Seriously, kid. When you’re eighteen, I’ll teach you. Don’t let your Dad try to teach you, he’ll just mess it up.”

“Hey,” Wash protests.

They say their goodbyes, hugs made awkward by former space marines who were never big on that kind of thing, but are learning, and also the multiple children being supported. They aren’t going to wait five years to see each other again. That’s for certain.

Last time Wash left these people he was the last to leave. Last time he left them, Maine was a step behind him.

This time, Wash looks back. They’re all standing around, saying goodbyes, the baby in Carolina’s arms, York’s arm slung around her shoulders. North is saying something, and Wash can tell from here that he’s smiling just from the way he’s standing. Connie shoves South, a gentle hip-check and the blond woman throws back her head and laughs.

The last time Wash left these people, he didn’t look back. This time he does.

The last time he left these people, he hadn’t wanted to leave. He doesn’t this time either.

The last time Wash left these people, Maine was two steps behind him.

This time, they’re side by side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end.  
> tumble with me, if that's your thing: Queseraawesome.tumblr.com

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Follow You Home [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6931411) by [QueSeraAwesome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueSeraAwesome/pseuds/QueSeraAwesome), [Skyorin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyorin/pseuds/Skyorin)




End file.
